I walked into work yesterday, completely dreading it. I was scheduled to work on the counter. again. But after smoking a cigarette and putting on my apron, my manager had informed me that there had been a slight scheduling conflict. Apparently she had put too many people on the counter. She had a guilty expression on her face, like she was about to send me home, but instead she asks,

“I know this is completely my fault, but would you mind being a hostess today? I tried to ask Ashley already but she flipped out. She hates hostessing.”

“Are you serious? I would love to hostess!” I say, so enthusiastically that several coworkers turn and stare.

Hostessing was actually my first position at Happy’s, and I loved it. You pretty much have complete control of the dining room, and no one really bothers you too much. The Happy’s I currently work at only has 16 tables, so there’s pretty much always a wait to be seated. So I keep track of the customers on a waiting list, and when a table opens up I clear it, vacuum under it if necessary, and then seat more customers. Easiest job I’ve ever had. I have no idea why Ashley would rather get her butt kicked working the counter all night than hostess.

I only had to deal with one idiotic customer last night, which is an incredibly low number considering the ones you encounter waiting tables or working on the counter. A woman whose name was on the list walked up to me and claimed that people who got here after her were getting seated before her. I showed her the list and said.

“This is where your name is.(way towards the bottom of the list) You got here ten minutes ago. The people who were seated before you had already been here for twenty before you walked in the door.”

“No.” She replied, no explanation, no reasoning just a flat-out denial. I stare at her for a few seconds before responding

“Well if you were here first, then why is your name at the bottom of the list?”

“I don’t know, why is it?” She asks, looking at me as if I purposely put her name there to sabotage her dining plans. My manager asks what the problem is, and the woman repeats her whole spiel. My manager backs me up one hundred percent, which is something that never happens.

Finally, when it was this idiot’s turn to be sat, she says,

“I don’t think it’s my turn.” I just stare at her. What do you mean? If you don’t think it’s your turn then what the heck have we been fighting about for the past twenty minutes? I get this insane urge to laugh, and try my best to hold it down.

“I think it’s their turn.” She clarified, pointing to a group of people standing next to her. “You are seating us completely out-of-order.” She declared.

“No, the hostess is right we came in here after you, it’s your turn.” I can’t help but smirk as I take her to her seat.